


The Ballad of Bitzer

by InterNutter



Category: Steam Powered Giraffe
Genre: Backstory, Fanbot fic, Feels, Gen, some swears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 11:59:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1225480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InterNutter/pseuds/InterNutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Yes, it's an OC fic. Get over it] Once upon a time, there was a little, broken robot who lived in a basement...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ballad of Bitzer

**Author's Note:**

> Bitzer (adj): Australian description of something made out of many other parts. Most often used in describing mongrel dogs. e.g.: "Bitzer this, bitzer that... I swear there's bitzer horse in 'im." (laughter) [corruption of "bits of"]

  
Disclaimer: I do not own anything but the story and any original character(s) below. Please don't take this fic as yours.

ObInfo: This is a FanBot fic. If you don't like those, go elsewhere.

The Ballad of Bitzer

InterNutter

  1898  
  "[To the devil with you, you piece of shit!]"  
  Initialising.  
  "Merde, merde, merde, MERDE!"  
  Identify language. French. Identify speaker...  
  Creator.  
  _This woman made me_, thought the robot. _She is angry. Angry is bad. I must say something to make her not be angry._  
  "MEEEERRRRRRDE!"  
  Identified. Desired word. Merde.  
  Initialising vocal interface.  
  "Me... me..."  
  The creator stopped shouting. Whirled and picked the robot up. "Quesque--? Are you trying to call me... 'Maman'?"  
  Creator was called 'Maman'. She had no mouth to smile, but she was happy to repeat, "Maman..."  
  Now she was smiling. Maman was so pretty. "That's right, petite... I am your Maman. I shall make you into a wonderful thing, indeed."  
  
  1923  
  "Goodnight, Maman."  
  Maman paused on the steps. Her dark hand tightened on the bannister. "Just stay quiet," she whispered. "I'll be back down tomorrow."  
  "Yes Maman."  
  But tomorrow never came.  
  
  1930  
  Bitzer waited until all the humans in the upstairs went out. She could count them by the way they walked. Maman. Papa. The three children. They were going out in their new automobile.  
  Bitzer briefly wanted to go with them, but if she did, she couldn't work on her surprise for when Maman came back.  
  Bitzer was building her own legs.  
  How happy Maman would be when she came downstairs to find Bitzer already done and ready to go!  
  The instructions were right there, after all. As were the tools. And a lot of bits and pieces got shoved her way just at the right time.  
  And legs weren't nearly so rough to put together as her other hand.  
  Two hands were *so* useful. Why in the wide world would anyone do anything "single handedly"?  
  Bitzer hooked up her thighs and drummed them - quietly, of course - on Maman's work bench.  
  How happy would Maman be!  
  
  1945  
  This was it! She was going to do it for sure, this time! Bitzer had double and triple-checked everything four times over and then some.  
  She had to be able to walk!  
  Left foot... down.  
  Right foot... down.  
  Brace on the edge of Maman's work bench.  
  Swallow all fear...  
  Push away!  
  Bitzer stopped a laugh before she could make a sound. It worked! She was standing! All on her own!  
  Now. Left leg. Forward. Right leg. Forward.  
  HA!  
  So it was a collection of little, unsteady shuffles. She was walking!  
  Verticality gave her a new perspective - literally.  
  This place was a mess!  
  And worse - Bitzer was still completely naked!  
  That would not do.  
  
  1957  
  Bitzer solved some of the clothing trouble by wearing it. The rest was a recursive exercise in folding and rolling and compression. Papers and books had to be read in order to be sorted.  
  Bitzer read of war and peace and talking bears and sewing and knitting and cooking by the light of her opal heart.  
  And she read of Colonel Walter and how Maman went all the way to San Diego to get the very plans on the wall by Maman's work bench.  
  Colonel P. A. Walter Singing Automaton Zero Zero One.  
  Did that make Colonel Walter her Papa? Or was he her Uncle?  
  Colonel P. A. Walter had not been around when Bitzer woke up for the first time as just a head. Well. Not even half a head. An experiment in photo-receptors and gears, all hooked up to her opal heart. He had never come to see Bitzer and, now that she thought of it, Bitzer had never heard Maman talk of or to him. At all.  
  That must make him a really unpopular uncle.  
  Which meant that Colonel P. A. Walter Singing Automaton Zero Zero One was... her cousin.  
  Logic also dictated that she, too, was a singing automaton.  
  Bitzer tried one of the songs she had heard from upstairs.  
  "Blue Moon... I saw you standing alone... without a dream in my heart..."  
  The people upstairs made a lot of noise, now. Demanding that everyone else keep that damned racket down.  
  Racket?  
  Racket was noise.  
  Maman had told her to stay quiet.  
  Oh no.  
  Bitzer put her hands over her mouth and whispered, "Sorry, Maman..."  
  
  1961  
  The basement was sorted! Everything had its place. At last.  
  Maman would be proud!  
  Bitzer sat down on the bench where she belonged and got back to her favourite books.  
  She'd earned the break.  
  
  1962  
  "I think there's a picture of her down in the basement."  
  Bitzer flickered back into awareness. Someone was coming! Maybe they'd take her to see Maman.  
  Whoever they were, their skin was way too pale to be anyone related to Maman.  
  "Holy shit..." the man murmured. He called back up the stairs, "AY! Who's been down here and cleaned up?"  
  Bitzer whispered, "Me."  
  A sequence of denials came down from upstairs.  
  No human had been down there long enough to clean up. No human had been down here for longer than ten minutes, for thirty-nine years.  
  Bitzer crept up on the invading human as he went through the boxes. He was muttering, "Old photos, old photos..." to himself.  
  Bitzer wanted to be helpful, so she fetched the photo box and put it down next to his feet.  
  She tried to summon a friendly smile.  
  "JESUS!" He jumped and almost fell backwards into the piles of things.  
  He had Maman's eyes!  
  "Y'awright down there?" called one of the upstairs humans.  
  "Saw a big spider," the human lied. He whispered, "What the fresh hell are you?"  
  Bitzer had her own question. "Why do you have Maman's eyes?"  
  He grabbed the box and fled back up the stairs as if the whole room were on fire.  
  Bitzer followed him as far as the stairs.  
  Those hated stairs!  
  Humans had no problem with them. They came down and up again with ease.  
  Dare she try again?  
  She put one foot on a riser. Put a hand on the bannister. Put her weight on the uppermost foot.  
  Servos whined. Joins crackled and scraped. It hurt!  
  Bitzer put her foot back down. Made her way back to the workbench. And tried not to cry.  
  She had no oil to spare on tears.  
  
  1964  
  "Oi!" The whispered voice almost echoed in the darkness. "Thing!"  
  Bitzer woke from stasis. The only light was her opal heart.  
  "Ay. Thing. Whatever you are. You in here?"  
  Bitzer stood and found him waving a very small dark lantern about, aiming its beam of bright light into the wrong corners. "I can't leave," she answered.  
  He yelped and hit her on the head with the lantern.  
  Bitzer looked sadly down at the face plate that had fallen off. "That was very hard to put on," she murmured as she picked it up. She found the mirror and wrestled with getting the right pins in the correct holes. She would have to affix it with something stronger, when she found some. The glues were evidently substandard. "Please don't hit me again, kind sir?"  
  The lantern was a cylinder in his hand. Only the porthole was bigger around than the vessel. She could not perceive any flickering of flame.  
  He was content to stand there and make small, high-pitched noises, so Bitzer fetched the glue and fixed her face.  
  "You're a machine?" he risked.  
  She fanned herself to help the glue dry. "Yes. Maman started putting me together in 1898."  
  "Who's your... 'Maman'?"  
  She went back into her 'home' of Maman's workbench and retrieved the old negative left behind the last time he had been here. "This is the only photograph I have left, any more."  
  He shone the light on it. "This is a negative."  
  "It's all I have," she repeated.  
  He shone the light on the white wall and peered at the dark frame. "That's... my grandmum... when she was young. Gram'ma built you?" He absently handed it back.  
  Confusion. "What is Gram'ma? I told you Maman built me. And why do you have her eyes?" She backed away from him. "Y-you're not taking m-my eyes."  
  "What..." He shook his head. "You're scared of *me*? *You're* scared of me? You're *scared* of me?" He laughed.  
  Bitzer backed away, retreating ever closer to Maman's work bench. "I promised," she whispered. "I promised Maman I'd stay quiet... She'll be so mad..."  
  He stopped trying to chase her. Backed up until she stopped backing up. "You really are scared of me..."  
  "How did you get Maman's eyes?" Bitzer repeated. "Gi-give them back? Maman can't see without the-them."  
  "It's okay, miss Thing. Your Maman said I could have 'em. She passed them down, see?"  
  "Is that like how all of you pass these things down?" Bitzer indicated the neat boxes and piles of things she had no immediate use for.  
  "Yeah, sort of. It's a little more complicated for people than things."  
  "I'm not a thing. I'm Maman's robot."  
  "Sure. Sure you are. Did... Maman... give you a name?"  
  Bitzer put the picture of Maman safely away. "Of course. How could I forget that we haven't been properly introduced? Good evening to you, sir. I... I call myself Bitzer Kludge."  
  "Kludge," he repeated.  
  "Oui, m'seur. Maman said I was one. Made out of bits of everything she had to hand. Bits of... Bitzer. You see the humour, sir? At least... it made Maman laugh."  
  "Yeah, it would," he muttered. "I'm Paul Arist. I'm... sort of a nephew, I guess. Your Maman had a baby who grew up to be my Dad." He offered a hand. "I won't hurt you. Promise. And I never hurt your Maman, and I never will."  
  She put her hand delicately in his and managed a curtsey despite her clicking, clunking, malfunctioning knees. "I am pleased to meet you m'seur Arist. It's been... lonely... down here."  
  "Was that you making that clicking?"  
  "I'm sorry to say it is," Bitzer let go and ushered him towards Maman's workbench. "I finished Maman's work using these plans. I don't think I'll ever get the knees right."  
  The lantern light swept over the complicated diagram on the wall. "That's a bit above my head, lovey."  
  Bitzer sighed. "Oh." She hadn't known she'd been hoping until that hope was shattered. "I don't suppose you might be acquainted with anyone who may help?"  
  "I can call around for you, I guess. I might know a fella who knows a fella... In the meantime, do you need anything?"  
  "I am running very low on motor oil. Some of my ge-gears are starting to sieze."  
  "Well, I can do that pretty soon," smiled Mr Arist. "You just stay put. I'll be right back."  
  Bitzer watched him go. Listened to every footstep with mounting anxiety. Felt every vibration above her head. And only allowed herself to relax when those footfalls came back down the stairs once more.  
  Mr Arist carried a tin almost the size of his head. "We use this on the old clunker."  
  "Goodness," said Bitzer. "I've only ever seen the li-little ones..."  
  "It's been a while, though, right?" He found one of the empty little ones and carefully filled it from the massive can. "Bet'cher thirsty."  
  "I refill my boiler from the sink down here."  
  "Hungry. Whatever." He finished the first and passed it to her. "Go ahead. It's awright. This is the good stuff."  
  It was everything she could do to not gulp it down like a savage. The gritty, congealed stuff she'd been existing on, previously, loosened and threatened to come out.  
  "Pard'n me," she managed, turning swiftly to the sink and coughing up the old, bad clumps of spoiled oil.  
  "Is that... normal?"  
  "I... have not any good oil in some time," Bitzer managed. "My system is purging the old--" cough cough hack hooorrrrrkkkk... "--material. Do excuse me, this is shameful."  
  "I understand," he soothed, busy filling another little container. "You need to look after yourself. You've done all this work for us and we never even knew you were there. Poor ole thing..." More business with the little ones. "I understand. You've been neglected for almost too long."  
  "Thank you," Bitzer whimpered. He wasn't Maman, but he did care. He had to care. He got over being afraid and they had Maman in common.  
  "Gotta make sure there's enough to last you until tomorrow."  
  "Tomorrow?" Bitzer echoed with fear.  
  "Yeah. Gotta go upstairs and call around, you know. There's no phone down here."  
  "And you will be coming back actually-tomorrow?"  
  "Sure. Why?"  
  "There have been fifteen thousand and eight separate tomorrows since Maman said she would be coming back tomorrow," she said. "I don't want to be alone for too long, again."  
  "Okay. So... It's nearly tomorrow already. How about I leave in the morning and come back later in the day." He showed her his watch, and how it was close to midnight. Now past midnight. "See? Tomorrow already. Now I can go catch some sleep, and then call around for you. I'll come back in the afternoon when the girls are out shopping."  
  "I will wait," said Bitzer. "Thank you."  
*  
  The oil was everything she needed and more. She was still intermittently coughing out bad blobs of congealed gunk, but it was not nearly so bad as it had been in the beginning.  
  She had an old rag to catch any such spills as she waited under the stairs for any signs of Mr Arist.  
  She heard the family eat breakfast, talking of everyday and ordinary things. Plans. Things to do.  
  She heard Mr Arist talking of finding "a couple of things in the basement that might be worth a few" and "having to do the ring-around" about someone to take them off the family's hands.  
  Bitzer did not hear Maman's voice. She hadn't heard her for twenty-six years. But then, Maman liked to stay quiet. All the same... Bitzer was getting worried about her.  
  The noise of breakfast and cleaning up faded into the radio and one of the children listening to it. Radio had changed. They no longer explained what was going on, or who looked like what.  
  Bitzer missed knowing what was happening on the radio.  
  The family left on their daily rounds and, finally, Mister Arist started talking to someone.  
  "Yeah, g'day Bob. Listen, you know a few things about old junk and stuff, right? Turns out my old Gran put together somethin' a little special, back in her day. Know anyone who's into them old Walter Robots?"  
  Junk? Walter Robots? Maybe this was a ruse. It couldn't be easy to explain to the upstairs people that there had been a robot in the basement for four decades and change. Therefore it had to be harder to explain Bitzer to a stranger.  
  Then again, it did fit that a collector or aficionado would know all about how to fix someone like Bitzer.  
  "Awright. Do you know someone who might know someone? Yeah? Just a sec', I need to write it down." Apparently random numbers. "Thanks, mate. I owe you one."  
  One what?  
  Small mechanical noises. "Yeah hello. My name's Paul Arist. Bob gave me your number? I'm ringin' to find anyone who might know something about Walter Robots. Walter. Doubleyou Ay El Tee Eee Are... Yeah. Robots. Are Oh Be Oh... yeah. I reckon I might'a found something interesting in my Gram'ma's old stuff. Do you know anyone or don't 'cha?" He got real quiet and made, "Mm-hm," noises at infrequent intervals. More random strings of numbers. This time, joined with phrases that made no sense.  
  Bitzer sipped oil and tried to cough up the old sump-stuff quietly as she listened.  
  "Yeah, hi. I'm Paul Arist and I'm ringing around to find anyone who's interested in any old Walter Robots? Like a collector? Yeah, it's still working."  
  What?  
  "Just as a best guess, how much would you expect to pay for an old one - sight unseen?"  
  Pay for...?  
  Was he planning to sell her to the highest bidder?  
  "Yeah, I understand why you'd wanna see it. Lotta fakes, is there? So -ah- how could I tell a fake from the real deal? Mm-hm... Yeah? On their bum?" Laughter. "Yeah, but... what if it finished itself? Youknow, before the bum got put on. How could I tell the-- Hello? HELLO?" Swearing.  
  Bitzer covertly inspected her own derrière. Maman had put her initials on the left cheek. _Part of Maman is with me always..._ she thought before straightening her clothes again.  
  "Yeah hi, my name's Paul Arist. I'm ringing around to find out a bit about old Walter Robots? Yeah, like the singing automatons. I think I might've found one? Only it looks like it wasn't finished or was damaged or something and it's fixed itself with whatever it could grab? Yeah, it still works. No, I haven't heard it sing. We don't have any instruments to check. No, not even a kazoo. No, I can't bring her to the phone, she's still a bit broken? Like, she can't climb stairs and stuff? Uhm. Five seven. Copper, gold, iron... yeah I meant it about broken. No, there's no paint work. Huh? Yeah, whatever was lying around. Bits of clocks, bits of an old sewing machine... I don't reckon there's many original parts... How much? It needs repairing first? So where would I go for that?"  
  Aha. It was a trick. He was tricking them to get the information he needed to help her.  
  "Thanks, mate."  
  Another pause filled with the radio and soft, mechanical noises. "Yeah hi, my name's Paul Arist? I'm looking for information on Walter Robots? I might'a found one that's a bit broken... How do I fix the knees?" Murmuring. "Yeah, it's stuck in the basement and too heavy to lift out. How much to send someone out here and fix her?" More murmuring. "Awright, how much would you give me for her as is and you do the fixing? Nah mate, if I could afford repairs, I wouldn't be selling it."  
  Selling...  
  He *was* trying to sell her!  
  Bitzer listened in terror as it went on. Conversation after conversation after conversation.  
  "Yeah nah... it needs some love. Must'a got shot up or something." Or, "I don't bloody know what happened to it, mate. Tell you what, you get it outta my basement and you can have it at discount." Or, "Fella told me I could get a thousand for it as is. Sight unseen." And finally, "You want to come look at it? That's great! What time's good for ya? Yeah. Yeah. I'll be waitin'. Bring yer winch."  
  Bitzer went back to Maman's work bench and tried not to cry.  
  After all his pretty words and kind voice and soothing manner... all he wanted was money. She was just a thing to him.  
  He'd *lied* to her!  
  She wiped her eyes and fought to regain her composure as he came down the stairs. "Bitzer? You all right, sweetie?"  
  She could lie, too. "Yes."  
  "Where are you?"  
  "I'm on the workbench. My feet are giving me trouble again." She removed a shoe and got out some tools for verisimilitude. She doubted he either noticed or cared.  
  "Good news! I got a guy coming around, day after tomorrow. He's gonna come look at you and see what can happen. Isn't that great?"  
  "That is wonderful news," she played with the screws in her foot. "And when my knees are fixed, you can take me to visit Maman?"  
  There it was. The flicker in his face. That meant he was lying. "Yeah, sure."  
  "I'll be so glad," she said. Inside, it felt like she imagined dying to be like. "Maman will be happy to see her work all finished at last."  
  She watched him check the oil bottles, go upstairs, fetch the big can, and bring it back down to top up the empties. Listened to him murmur platitudes and watched his face flicker.  
  He lied so often. She wondered if he remembered what the truth was like.  
  And the instant he was gone for the night, she started working on a plan.  
*  
  Tomorrow came and went with another visit. And now it was the day the 'bloke' was coming. Mr Arist was waiting upstairs. Pacing. Anxious.  
  Bitzer took down the plans from the wall, pasting up an assortment of childrens' drawings from the boxes and files. She put the plans for the Colonel P. A. Walter Singing Automaton Zero Zero One into a sealable cardboard tube, with Maman's remaining photograph for safekeeping.  
  She took some grease-lumps from the sink and dirtied up her face and clothes, then sat on the bench exactly like a doll.  
  Then she turned down her opal heart - also dirtied up so that the lights would not show - until she was just barely aware of what was going on.  
  She would not be going to sleep/stasis now that Paul Arist knew about her.  
  Footsteps and the voice of a stranger. A conversation with Mr Arist. Two sets of boots on the stairs. A light flicked on.  
  "It's this way. There's plans on the wall and everything."  
  "Not a lot of room in here, is there?"  
  "Yeah, nah. The rest of the family sort of used this place as a dumping ground for years. I found the old robot when I was tidying up."  
  _Liar,_ thought Bitzer. She kept herself powered down.  
  "What," said Mr Arist. "What the--"  
  "Is this a joke, Mr Arist?"  
  "There was fancy plans up there I swear! Colonel P. A. Walter da da da oh oh one. And diagrams and shit."  
  The stranger peered into Bitzer's half-closed eyes, knocked on her chest-plate. "I can hear ticking, but it's very slow..." he lifted an arm, twisted it this way and that.  
  Bitzer fought him, to make it seem as if she hadn't been oiled and her joints were rusty.  
  He moved her head and the plate that always gave her trouble fell off in a cloud of dried and ineffective glue. Not surprising, since she'd spent two hours making certain it would do so.  
  "This appears to be part of an old cooking pot. What manner of nonsense are you trying to pull?"  
  "I didn't do this," Mr Arist protested. "It must'a been the thing. She could'a heard me and..." he muttered some swears. "I swear to God, sir. Yesterday, she was walking and talking and taking in oil--"  
  "That machine has not been oiled in decades!"  
  "Nah, it's faking it, look!" He grabbed Bitzer's upraised arm and yanked it down.  
  Bitzer allowed herself to fall off the bench in an undignified heap.  
  "Okay. Whatever. How about the opal? There's this big opal heart in its chest,right? You take the thing, you get the opal. How about it?"  
  A long, ominous silence in which Bitzer could only hear the men breathing and her own, muted ticking.  
  "You're despicable," said the stranger.  
  Mr Arist chased him all the way out to the front.  
  Bitzer got up - with some trouble, because of the knees - and began cleaning herself off. There were plenty of grease removers in the basement. Some were even good with clothes. She listened for him to return, but he didn't come down.  
  
  1972  
  "Nobody's really lived in here for long since the thirties," said a stranger's voice. The first voice she'd heard since the Arists last went out and never came back. "There's a reputation for the place being haunted. Utter nonsense of course. As you can see, all of the original fittings have been preserved."  
  "I don't like the wallpaper," said another stranger.  
  Bitzer knew what to do. She walked softly to the echo spot and put on her spooky dead voice. "Ge-e-et... o-o-o-u-u-u-t," she croaked.  
  "Hahahaha, old houses make the weirdest noises, don't they?"  
  "Yoooooo tooo wiiiilll diiiiieee..." Bitzer croaked.  
  "As you can see, it also comes fully furnished with authentic antique furniture..."  
  Bitzer shrieked. The upstairs people fled.  
  Good.  
  Nobody living here meant nobody could try to take her away from Maman.  
  But they were coming too often, now, to talk about the house and what it had.  
  Maybe someone would like having a ghost.  
  She had to come up with some new strategies.  
  It was a pity she was too scared to come up with anything.  
  
  1980  
  "Everything?"  
  "Everything out. I don't care if it's a ten ton safe in the grease trap or the dunny pit. Every last thing is coming out of here."  
  "Why?"  
  "It's all evidence, son. Real estate fraud. Family who owned this place kept jacking up the price, claiming it on tax deductions. You can see nobody's done anything with it for ages."  
  Bitzer hurried to the echo spot. Screamed like she was being murdered. That usually scared invaders.  
  "Jesus! What the heck was that?"  
  "Just the ghost they reckon's here. Bet you ten dollars we'll find some machine doing that, too. Bloody shifty bastards."  
  Bitzer dried a pitiful, dying moan followed by the whimpering of a child. She cried for Maman in the hopes that Maman would hear her.  
  "Everybody, ignore that bullshit! It's another stupid trick by these arseholes. Start shifting shit and shut up about the damn noises."  
  They weren't going away!  
  Bitzer panicked. She gathered up the tube with the plans and Maman's photo inside and all the little containers of oil. The ones with oil still in, at least, and hunkered under the table. Protecting what little she claimed as hers.  
  The bangs and crashes and thumps upstairs went on forever. Then boots after boots came down and began hauling boxes away.  
  She flinched and whimpered as the maze that kept her safely hidden for so very long got dismantled piece by piece.  
  Cringed around her belongings when they took the table away.  
  "What the hell? Hey Sarge!"  
  "Yeh?"  
  "Someone's down here!"  
  Clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp. "Holy shit..."  
  "They're scared, Sarge."  
  "Yeah, I can see that. Get on the box and call a counsellor. I'll do what I can."  
  Someone sat down near her. Not near enough to make her shrink away, but not far enough to escape. Even if she could get up in a hurry.  
  "Was that you making those sounds?"  
  Bitzer risked a glance between her hat and her arm. He was wearing a uniform. "'M I in trouble?"  
  "I just want to know a few things from you, okay? Then we'll find out who's in trouble and what we can do about it. Sound good?"  
  That was neither a yes nor a no. Bitzer drew herself in tighter.  
  "Okay. I'm sorry I scared you. And I'm pretty sure my boys are sorry they scared you, too. I'd like to help. How long have you been here? Hey?"  
  Bitzer decided minimalism may discourage him. "Years."  
  "Years. Did the Bludjas know you were here?"  
  "Who?"  
  "The people who own this house."  
  "Maman owns this house."  
  "Mammo? I don't know any Mammo."  
  "Maman," Bitzer corrected. "My mo-mother."  
  Sarge swore. "Did your mum make you stay down here?"  
  "She said she'd be back tomorrow."  
  "Good, good," he cooed. "You're doing great. And -ah- how long ago was that?"  
  She couldn't help it. She'd been counting the days ever since that one night when she'd last seen Maman. "Fifty-seven years, four months, two weeks and five days."  
  "...fifty... You never went upstairs in fifty-seven years?"  
  "Can't," managed Bitzer. "Knees don't work."  
  "Would you like it if we helped you upstairs?"  
  "And help me find Maman?"  
  Sarge agreed quickly. "Oh yeah. We *really* want to find your mum. What's your name?"  
  "Bitzer," she uncurled a little, now that everyone was staying very still. They weren't threatening to take everything away, any more. She willed herself to uncurl more and offer her hand to Sarge. "Bitzer Kludge."  
  To his credit, he only flinched a little. "You're a *robot*," he breathed, as if this explained everything. "That's why there's no food or bed or anything. Wow. You had me fooled, I thought you were a person."  
  The beginnings of a smile found its way onto her face. "Thank you. The la-last person who saw me said I was j-j-junk."  
  He smiled. "Never. I always thought robots like you were works of art."  
  "Aw Sarge, you old softie," cooed another man in uniform.  
  "Did I hear someone volunteering for summer traffic patrol?"  
  "No Sarge."  
  "Good."  
  Bitzer took her hand back and held tight to the cylinder. Watching the men.  
  "Do we still need the counselor, Sarge?" came a voice from upstairs.  
  "Might as well. And see if you can get someone from Waltercorp on the blower, too. Reckon we've uncovered one of their lost masterpieces or something." He levered himself up and asked, "How bad are those knees, love?"  
  "I can stand," she said, wrestling herself around to do so with only one arm available, since the other wrapped tight around the card cylinder. "I just c-can't... climb sta-stairs."  
  "We can rig up something, I bet."  
*  
  There was an ironing board without any legs. There were ropes. There were hooks. There was a come-along winch affixed to an upstairs column. Sarge sat beside her, holding her hat, and maintained a casual smile as Bitzer looked nervously around from her ignoble position, strapped to the ironing board.  
  "Three steps. Seven to go."  
  Bitzer kept looking down to the place where Maman's work bench had been. She was up so high... She was glad of the cardboard tube. Glad the Sarge also held a bottle of water and a container of oil for her.  
  She could see the ceiling. It was so close, now. If she wasn't wrapped up in rope, she could reach up and touch it...  
  The winch clicked and clunked, dragging her upwards centimetre by painful centimetre. The door was almost within reach.  
  She'd never been more afraid of anything in her life.  
  "Something worrying you, love?" asked Sarge.  
  "...maman... Will she be mad? You t-t-t-tore up her wor-workspace. You're ta-taking her things."  
  "We'll try to find her. Make sure she knows it isn't your fault. When's the last time you heard yer mum?"  
  "Forty-t-t-two years ago. She we-went upst-t-tairs and... never ca-came down again."  
  "There's nobody here, now." Sarge juggled Bitzer's belongings to take more notes. "Do you remember anyone calling your mum any other name?"  
  "Yes! Yes I do. People coming to the house called her Missus Arist. And Papa - when he was here - called her Play."  
  "Play. Play Arist." Scratch, scratch, scratch, went the pen. "That's a pretty unusual name. We should be able to find her, no trouble."  
  In spite of her fears, Bitzer smiled. They were going to help her find Maman! And Maman was going to see her all built and help her fix her knees and then Bitzer would be useful and help Maman and everything would be good.  
  They could live happily ever after.  
  "Four steps," cheered Sarge. "You'll be able to see the upstairs rooms, soon."  
  Someone else entered the house. Another stranger. They marched into the house, all the way up to the winch and the door and the stairs and Bitzer and Sarge.  
  "What the flying hell is this?"  
  "Technically," said Sarge as he stood, "we're moving heavy equipment, chief."  
  Bitzer tried to look at the stranger, but all she could see were trouser cuffs. "Hello?" she risked. "Are you going to help find Maman, too?"  
  "Her mother," supplied Sarge. "The woman who put her together. Well. Most of her together."  
  The winch-work edged her closer and closer to the trouser cuffs. "You may want to move, Mr Chief," Bitzer offered. "I'm coming up and I may be a bit of a wide load..."  
  "Is this why you're all taking forever and a week to get this lot shifted into evidence?" asked Chief.  
  "Well... yeah. She's evidence, too. And she can't climb the stairs without damaging herself, and I know you know the rules about damaging evidence..."  
  "This evidence may also be a witness."  
  "Not much of a one, sir. She's been in the basement since nineteen twenty-three, sir."  
  "Then she's a permanent installation. Put her back down."  
  "But sir..."  
  "Rules are rules. Put her back down."  
  "Sir!"  
  "Down. Now. That's an order."  
  They let her ride the stairs down and laid her in a convenient corner and didn't bother to untie her until they had moved everything else out.  
  Sarge gave her her hat back and as many apologies as he could.  
  And when there was nothing left to take, they took the rope and the old ironing board, too. Someone came down and held their hand out. "The tube, too."  
  "Non!" She flailed for the words to make him go away. "If I am a permanent installation, then so is this! It's mine! You can't have it!" The man kept advancing and she kept retreating and she kept denying him. Other strangers came down to chase her.  
  Bitzer wound up huddled under the stairs, blocking their access with her body and screaming as loud and as long and as high as she could. Holding tight to the tube and trying not to overload her circuits because overloads would make her shut down. Shut downs made her limp.  
  She never heard the Walter Robotics representative come down. Didn't hear them quietly hustle all the strangers away. She did eventually notice that someone was sort-of leaning on the stairs and watching her cry.  
  The person on the stairs was very pale, where they weren't blue.  
  "Hi there," said a quiet, musical voice. "My name's Julia. What's yours?"  
  "Bi-Bi-Bitzer-r-r-r..." she tried to calm down. The glitching was getting bad. "Bi-Bitzer K-K-K-Kludge."  
  "Hello, Miss Bitzer. Pleased to meet you. It's rare that I meet a robot with two names."  
  Bitzer uncurled a little. "You've me-met other ro-robots?"  
  Julia smiled. Showed Bitzer a card she wore around her neck. It showed a logo primarily made out of a W. "I work for Walter Robotics Corporation. Of course I've met robots. And they're always very nice."  
  Now Bitzer looked around.  
  There was no-one else in the basement but herself and Miss Julia. Nothing in there, either, but a couple of metal folding chairs that also bore the Walter Robotics Corporation logo.  
  "The people who were down here before wanted to take my things," Bitzer complained. "They're not evidence. They're mine."  
  "Of course they are. They're silly for not understanding that. I promise I won't take your things." Julia watched Bitzer and Bitzer watched Julia. "Do you want to come out of there and sit with me? It's kind of uncomfortable, for me, lying on these stairs like this."  
  Bitzer had no reason not to trust Julia. She had plenty of reasons not to trust the strangers upstairs. Starting with all the things they had taken away. All the same, new people did bad things. She edged out, ready to bolt away and get back to her safest-place and start shrieking again.  
  Miss Julia sat in such a way as to let Bitzer get away. She sat calmly and without fear. Without anger. Without threat.  
  Bitzer edged into the seat. Positioned, she noticed, so that Bitzer could both escape to and keep an eye on the staircase.  
  "May I ask what you have in there?"  
  "Maman's work," said Bitzer. "And the la-last photo I have of Maman."  
  "Tell me about Maman."  
  There was so much to tell. Of her beautiful brown skin and her lovely dark eyes and the way her hair fell in soft, loose curls or how her teeth almost shone with their own light when she smiled. About the magic spot in her left palm that kept changing shape. Of the scattering of French that Maman had picked up from her adoptive mother and auntie. Of the impeccable way she dressed. Of the pretty blue streak in her hair. Of how gentle she was with the upstairs children. Of the way she and Papa would laugh together, all the years that Bitzer was there to listen and try to finish Maman's work. Of the day Maman went all the way upstairs and didn't come down again. Of all the things Bitzer learned, just by listening to her voice.  
  Bitzer carefully took out the photograph. "Paul Arist told me it is a 'negative'."  
  Julia squinted at it. "It's very faded. Has it been exposed to light?"  
  "No. I only take it out in the dark to hug Maman goodnight." She demonstrated, pressing the photo against her opal heart before putting it carefully away.  
  "I see," said Julia sadly. "And Maman's work?"  
  "I am proof," said Bitzer. "That Maman is very clever." Very carefully, she took out the big scroll of the plans and laid them on the floor. "That's my cousin. Colonel P. A. Walter Singing Automaton Zero Zero One." She brushed the crackling paper. "Maman made me using these plans. Except for a blue matter energy core... I have an opal heart."  
  "All of that's an opal?"  
  "Yes. It keeps me alive."  
  "I never worked with opal energy, before." Julia helped Bitzer re-roll the plans and put them back in the tube. "Can I look?"  
  "I do-don't like to be undressed. And there's n-n-n-no-nothing stopping you from pul-pulling wires..."  
  "I wouldn't do that," said Julia. "At Waltercorp, we make robots. We don't kill them."  
  Bitzer wrapped her arms around the tube again. Protecting her heart. "I only have your word for that. And the la-last person who said they wa-wanted to help tried to sell me."  
  There was a commotion upstairs. People coming in who weren't welcome. Not by anyone.  
  Julia wandered over and, having heard some of the debate, climbed the stairs. "Excuse me, this is a private consultation!"  
  "The public has a right to know!"  
  Bitzer fled her chair and hid under the stairs, tube and all.  
  Heavy, noisy feet down the stairs. Bright lights shining on her and making her shadow a scary thing to behold. Bitzer edged herself as far into the corner as she could go.  
  "Show us the opal!"  
  "We want to see the opal!"  
  "How much is your heart worth?"  
  "How does it feel to be on national television?"  
  "What's your name?"  
  Keep calm. Keep calm. Keep still. Be a rusted doll that can't move. They shouldn't be able to hurt her. They didn't know how.  
  But the oil still leaked from her eyes. The sobs still escaped her throat.  
  "What's that mean?"  
  "Are you trying to talk?"  
  "Are you broken?"  
  "Can you talk?"  
  "Do you have anything to say to the people at home?"  
  "Can we see your opal?"  
  "How much do you cost?"  
  "Can you talk?"  
  "What do you know about the fraud investigation?"  
  "How much is the opal worth?"  
  "Do you know?"  
  "Can you talk?"  
  Her boiler gurgled. Pressure release valves vented through warning whistles.  
  The lights went away and a friendly, porcelain-white hand offered her a bottle of water through the risers of the stairs.  
  Bitzer took it gratefully and tried to refill her boiler discretely.  
  "What is *wrong* with you?" Julia demanded. "I *just* got her to start opening up and you lot have to barge in here and demand to know everything at once! This is a robot who's been *alone* for over fifty years."  
  "Have you seen the opal?"  
  "How much do you reckon it's worth?"  
  "How big is it?"  
  "Does it have gold fixtures?"  
  "How many carats?"  
  "Can it talk?"  
  "Does it move?"  
  "Officers?" Julia called up the stairs. "Please remove these trespassers from this location?" To the invaders, she said, "Walter Robotics employees are not allowed to give public statements and if you air so much as one frame of me, or this robot, all of your networks will be sued into oblivion, have a nice day."  
  It took too long, with way too much shouting and loud noises and machines smashing and Miss Julia moved into the space under the stairs to supply water and oil and, for the first time in her life, hugs.  
  Hugs were so good, and Bitzer couldn't comprehend why.  
  How could having anyone else's arms about yourself make anything feel better?  
  But it did.  
  It took far too long for all the noise to go away. For Bitzer to make her voice function again. For her to say, "Who *were* they?"  
  "The Media," said Julia with a sneer. "They live to invade people's space and then ask them how they feel about that. Sometimes, I think they get points if someone punches them or breaks a camera."  
  "Violence is wrong," murmured Bitzer.  
  "Yes. I really wish *they'd* remember that. It's okay. They're allergic to lawyers."  
  "Why?"  
  "...hoboy..." Julia muttered.  
  It was a long talk. During which, more Waltercorp employees filed in with an inflatable mattress and a sleeping bag (for sleeping in, Julia explained. It was not a bag that was asleep) and a picnic blanket and some things for Miss Julia's comfort and another chair for Sarge's.  
  Sarge did most of the law stuff, and Julia did all of the people stuff.  
  And, when the counsellor finally came down to discover that her patient was an isolated robot in a cleaned-out basement, the counsellor asked all about what Bitzer knew about the world outside and her feelings during her near-experience with egress.  
  Julia slept and Sarge went away during that quiet session. Bitzer felt compelled to whisper and, thankfully, the counsellor followed suit.  
  There was so much to learn.  
  It was the first time she'd needed to shut down for processing time.  
  The first time she dreamed.  
  
  1982  
  The three of the humans took turns living with Bitzer. A weekend here. A day there. They moved things in for her. A television. A VCR. A radio. Books.  
  Now and then the Chief would come down and ask her questions about what she heard from the families who were in the home. He was coming in less and less.  
  And so was Sarge.  
  And, in the end, so was Counsellor Travis.  
  "You won't go away and never come back? Will you Miss Julia?" Bitzer asked. "People keep going away. And I don't like being alone."  
  "You were alone in this basement for almost sixty years," said Julia. "You coped."  
  "Most of the time, I could hear the family. That wasn't alone," Bitzer shook her head. "I hear you when you're upstairs. I hear Sarge when he comes. I hear you talking when you go to watch your favourite shows. Or when you go to eat. I'm not alone with people in the house."  
  Julia frowned. "So... why did you do the ghost act when the last lot moved out?"  
  "They were trying to sell the house and everything in it. Including me. I will *not* be sold away from Maman."  
  And that was how they found out about Paul Arist and his brief dalliance with attempting to sell a 'Walter Robot' to the first person even halfway willing to take her away.  
  "Paul Arist," Julia announced at the end of the story, "Was a scoundrel."  
  That opinion was all Bitzer really needed to finally allow Miss Julia to look at Bitzer's knees.  
  There was a lot of business with oil. Deconstructing and reconstructing her legs. Swapping parts. But at the end of the day, they were still bad knees.  
  "I don't mind," she consoled the exhausted and fretting Miss Julia. "You make this house better every day you're in it."  
  "But I don't *want* to be in it! This was supposed to be a two week job! Go an fix the robot and bring it back for inspection. I didn't want to be caught in the middle of bloody witness protection! I had a *life* before you barged into it!"  
  "Obviously, I would not know what that is like, not being alive." Bitzer indicated the oil supplies and the sink. "I have everything I need. You can go back to the place you came from. I'll stay here in mine."  
  "Wait. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."  
  "Part of you meant it, Miss Julia. And you know I dislike negative emotions. If you keep... maintaining me at the cost of your life? Those emotions will eat you. That won't do. Fill out whatever paperwork you need to."  
  "Damnit... how can you make me feel guilty about this?"  
  Bitzer thought about that. "I wish I knew. Then I'd stop so you could go."  
  
  1985  
  Sarge came to live in the house. Early retirement. He had got rounder since the last time Bitzer had seen him and he was always willing to chat. Or fiddle around with the mechanics in her legs.  
  He'd even talk to her about Star Trek or Doctor Who or Monkey or any of the other shows Bitzer found fascinating.  
  He even bought down blank books and art supplies for Bitzer to experiment with.  
  Sarge was fun.  
  "One way or another, Bitzer," he'd say every night before his bedtime. "I'm getting you out of this hole."  
  
  1988  
  There was a world's exposition in Brisbane.  
  And a world's fair meant that Walter Robotics would have an exhibit.  
  Sarge broke all the rules. He got some of his mates to winch Bitzer out of the basement and some lady relatives to help her at least spruce up her second-hand attire. All of Sarge's friends pitched in for just one entry ticket.  
  Sarge escorted her all the way to the entry gates. His face was happy, but his skin was... grey.  
  "You all right, Sarge?"  
  "I'll be all right, Bitzer. You go and find the Walter Robotics Pavilion. Find your cousin."  
  "Colonel P. A. Walter Singing Automaton Zero Zero One?"  
  "I think it has a name, now. They're all named after things. Spine. Upgrade. Rabbit. That sort of rubbish. Just get to the..." Sarge lost his breath, rubbing his left arm.  
  "Sarge?"  
  Sarge had to sit down on one of the benches. "You get to the pavilion. Walter Robotics. They'll see you right. I promise."  
  "Do you promise to be okay?"  
  "I'll be alright once I know you're alright. Go on, little lady. Go find your... cousin..."  
  Bitzer kissed his forehead before she set forth for the gates. He was clammy and cold, but he was sweating.  
  Worried, she got one of the uniformed men at the gates to go see to Sarge.  
  Humans looked after humans. Sarge would be fine.  
*  
  Expo '88 was... an adventure. There were so many things to see. So much to experience. She didn't want to power down and get thrown out, so Bitzer did her best to find the Walter Robotics Pavilion.  
  It was vexing. Any time she asked for directions, the humans would laugh. Some would help, but it took supreme effort. Bitzer learned to look for uniforms.  
  It took her hours, well into the night, but she found it.  
  The white-and-blue W and all the lights and steam.  
  She'd found it.  
  Her cousins were in there.  
  Bitzer crept into the steam-filled darkness and toured the exhibit of more modern Walter products. Humanoid ones such as herself were prohibitively expensive. Only the wealthiest of patrons or programs could afford a fully humanoid Walter Robot.  
  No wonder those Medias had kept asking her how much she was worth.  
  The crowds and the flow of the pavilion lead her inexorably into the theatre, where the Walter Robots were scheduled to play the Late Early Show in a few more hours.  
  There were photographs of robots. A general plea for the locations of any Walter bots in bad repair. Faded photographs of those who were lost.  
  'Who'. Not 'that'.  
  Bitzer found a Walter Girl inspecting her. "Hello? Can you tell me please... Which one is Colonel P. A. Walter Singing Automaton Zero Zero One?"  
  "Oh, that's Rabbit. They'll all be onstage sometime soon. When were you made, miss...?  
  "I'm Bitzer. Bitzer Kludge. The one you call Ra-Rabbit is my c-c-co-c-cousin."  
  "Cousin," repeated the Walter Girl. "In that case, we have special seating for robots. Are you set for water? Oil?"  
  Bitzer managed a polite, "Yes, thank you," And sat where indicated. The Walter Girl rushed behind the black-and-red curtains to murmur with other voices. Bitzer let herself power down and daydream through her big adventure until the show started. She nervously topped up her water and oil while the humans messed around on the stage and then...  
  "Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome the original singing automatons... Colonel Walter's Steam Man Band!"  
  Three *male* bots walked onto the stage. Too whole. Too beautiful. Too well-maintained.  
  They would not welcome a broken, broken-down piece of scrap like her.  
  And then they introduced themselves.  
  Rabbit was a *boy*? HOW?  
  Maman made Bitzer from the robot Rabbit's plans.  
  And then the silver one spoke. The Spine.  
  Something in his liquid gold voice just blew out her circuits. She didn't hear the noise she made as she fell backwards through her own steam and smoke. All she could think was, _Back to the scrap-heap I came from, then._  
*  
  "Parts of her are very well-made, but the rest... It looks like she was put together with increasingly low-quality junk."  
  "Someone started her out with a lot of love," said another.  
  Bitzer opened her eyes.  
  "Hello, sweetie," said a woman with soft, dark curls. Dark skin. Dark eyes. And a pretty swatch of blue coming from her brow.  
  "Maman!" Bitzer lurched halfway off the slab to wrap her in a grateful hug. "I found you! I found you! Sarge said the Waltercorp would see me right and they did!" She couldn't help sobbing. "Are you proud of me Maman? I finished building myself *for* you. I'm all good, na-now."  
  The woman blinked in confusion. Looked somewhere behind Bitzer. There was a sense of urgent, silent motions from someone Bitzer didn't care about.  
  "You found me," Maman finally agreed. Her voice had changed, but people had changing voices all the time. "I almost didn't recognise you. All built up at last. Why don't you tell me what you've done with yourself while I was... away."  
  And there was the silver one. The Spine. Gliding through the repair shop as if it were everyday business.  
  He smiled at her and said, "Feeling better, ma'am?"  
  Bitzer giggled nervously all the way into emergency shutdown.  
  It took them forty goes before they realised that the sight and sound of The Spine made her circuits overload.  
  And every time, startup was a little harder.  
*  
  Maman was talking to someone behind her. All around her slab, there were other bots in various stages of repair. One had their entire torso open while a Walter Technician fooled around with their insides. The technician fished out a mummified cane toad and the robot boggled. "Wow. How did *that* get in there?"  
  Someone was sitting with her. The golden robot known as The Jon. He was eating a sandwich.  
  "Hey there," said The Jon. "They said it wasn't a good idea to leave you alone and the Walter Workers are busy. I'm The Jon."  
  "I'm ashamed of myself." Bitzer couldn't shrink away or escape. They had her strapped down. How could they want to look at broken and wrecked her when they were all so beautifully symmetrical. Perfectly made.  
  "...doesn't *have* synthetic emotions. There's no operating system. No software. If we ran the usual repair routine... it would kill her. Some other robot would wake up on that slab and walk away with her body," Maman was saying. "And that's horrible."  
  "But she still feels?" said a man's voice. Not that of The Spine. A human.  
  "Why be ashamed?" said The Jon. "You made it this far."  
  "Of course she still feels. Look at her. She's ashamed that she's broken."  
  "I'm ugly," Bitzer whispered. "I wasn't ma-made right. Maman left me unfinished an-and I was stupid e-enough to think I co-could..."  
  "You put the rest of you together?" boggled The Jon. "That's incredible! No robot's ever done that. Sure, some have self-repaired, but... wow. You're amazing!"  
  "I'm an incre-credible me-me-mess." She turned away from his golden perfection. Watched her copper cousin entertaining other damaged robots. "No wonder Maman we-went away. I'm a failed pro-project designed to be for-forg-g-g-gotten."  
  "Oh no," Maman zoomed back into Bitzer's field of view. "Don't you think like that, Cherie. I-I left because... I wanted to improve you. I'm so sorry I made so many mistakes making you. And I'm sorry I left you alone for so long. I wanted to be sure... and I got so busy... I almost forgot about you and how much you needed me."  
  Oily tears blurred her sight. Yet she still found Maman's hand and traced where her magic spot should have been. Let herself get distracted by that one, little detail. "All that changing and growing and your magic spot goes and vanishes." A nervous laugh bubbled up out of her. "And that scoundrel your grandson tried to *sell* me when you were gone."  
  "Horrid child," agreed Maman. "You're doing things I never thought you would. And... some of these things are... causing problems for you."  
  "Like... when I se-se-see and hear The Spine?" She couldn't keep a breathy sigh out of the way she said his name.  
  "Exactly that, dear. You don't have the synthetic emotion systems the other bots have and yet... you still fell in love."  
  "...love..."  
  "We're going to have to be very careful. You're such a marvel. I don't want that miracle to end."  
  "Of c-c-course not. No-not after I just found you."  
  "We have a lot of work to do, you and I."  
  Bitzer wanted to say, _I'm so glad,_ and _I want to help,_ but her overloaded processors demanded another retreat into stasis.  
*  
  "That wasn't a breakdown," noted Peter Walter V.  
  "No, she just slipped into stasis." Carol found and donned a stethoscope. "Her clockwork brain's still going. I can see her receptors twitching... I think she's dreaming."  
  "And there's no blue matter core," he added, gently caressing the glowing, heart-shaped opal in the new robot's chest.  
  "I don't have a core either," said The Jon, helpfully. "I still run."  
  "You're a special case, The Jon."  
  "And anyway, you started with a blue core, just like the others. This... Is new."  
  Carol was grinning. "Does this mean we break out the *special* lab?"  
  Peter side-eyed her. "Sometimes, I think you Walter Girls are a little *too* enthusiastic." Sigh. "Yes, we're breaking out the 'special' lab."  
  "YAY!"  
*  
  Ticking.  
  Not hers.   
  Bitzer opened to see a face not entirely unlike her own. Except far better made. No gold. And angry. At her.  
  Rabbit.  
  Her cousin.  
  "I'm sorry," said Bitzer. Almost automatically.  
  "You knew. Pappy kne-knew. I ain't told hardly no-nobody and now it's up onna wall for ev-ever-everyone!" Fury steamed out of Rabbit in great, big gouts of vapour.  
  "On the--?"  
  Rabbit pointed. She looked. The plans for Colonel P. A. Walter Singing Automaton Zero Zero One had found their way to a wall, under special lighting. Someone was taking photographs of it through different filters.  
  All she could think of to say was, "They've been in my *house*!"  
  "B-b-b-burn your house," rumbled Rabbit. "Wanna know what the worst part is? Wa-wanna? They won't let me be me! Not the m-m-m-me I was s'posed'a be."  
  Bitzer couldn't contain it any more. She'd waited ninety years to meet her cousin and had expected hugs and tea parties and fun and shopping and adventures with three boys and a dog. And despite finding Maman again, it was all going wrong.  
  "Wwwwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhaaaaaaahhaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh! I didn't meeeeeheeeean iiiiiiit..." Sobs shook her. The clamps they had on her stopped her from curling up or even wiping her own face like she wanted. Oil and water alike leaked from all orifii in her face. Even the cracks in her plating. It all came out in one, huge unladylike gabble, interspersed with gasps of air in a desperate attempt to cool her overheating systems. "I'msosorryI'muglyan'brokenan'Ididn'wantanyonetobeangreeeeeeeee (gasp) Ijustwantedafamileeeeheeeheeee (gasp) Idon'likeitwhenfolksareangreeeeeeee (gasp) (gasp) Igotangryoncean'itwasaw-haw-hawfuuuullll..."  
  Urgent brown hands tore open Bitzer's corset. Opened the dress underneath. Opened her chest cavity and desperately poured extra water into her boiler.  
  This only spurred greater upset. Now everyone could see what a ruin she was. And it didn't matter that the only people here were Maman and a man with blue-black hair and Rabbit. They'd all see what a horrible knock-off she was.  
  She wasn't a real Walter's Robot.  
  She was an imitation made of whatever was close to hand, from stolen plans that, should they have remained in their place, made her dear cousin Rabbit a much happier being.  
  "Wha-why did you make m-ma-m-m-me, Ma-Maman? I'm no-n-not pro-proof. I'm a big mi-mistake..."  
  Maman rushed to pad her with cold things. The man started a machine that made two kinds of vapour boil out of her.  
  "Ta-take me ap-p-p-part, Maman. Y-y-y-y-y-use the g-g-good bi-bits t' make c-cousin Ra-Rabbit hap-p-p-py." Sob. "If there a-a-are any."  
  "You stop that," scolded Maman. "You are a wonder of science and not a mistake at all. Rabbit's only mad because she hasn't had the chance to get used to change and *she should be nicer to you*." This last with a pointed glare at the apparently-male copper robot. "We've told her four different ways that your next emotional overload might be your last."  
  "*Really* need to install synthetic emotions in her," said the man behind her.  
  "No," countered Maman. "We need to come up with a buffer program. She already *has* emotions, Mr Walter. What she lacks is the ability to stop them overwhelming her mechanical nature."  
  "I get it," Rabbit growled. "Be a nice robot."  
  "Audiences just aren't ready for that big a change, Rabbit," soothed the man. Mr Walter.  
  "You're not *the* Peter A. Walter, are you?" Bitzer managed.  
  "No, dearie. Just *a* Peter A. Walter. We come in six-packs, now."  
  Rabbit laughed. "That's right! Pete the sixth is home with his mama. Six-Petes! Pew! Pew!"  
  One of the Walter Girls took this as a cue to escort Rabbit out of the room.  
  "Don't leave me alone?" Bitzer begged. And then she hated herself for saying it.  
  "You won't be alone, I promise," said Maman. "There will always be someone here with you."  
  It was a promise she kept.  
*  
  She lost track of time. There was no chronometer, nor calendar, nor any way of monitoring the passage of time. And with frequent glitch-outs and shut-downs and just necessary voyages into the dreams stasis made, Bitzer had no idea on how much time had passed.  
  "Is Sarge getting worried?"  
  "Sarge? I don't believe I've met them. Who's Sarge?"  
  "Sarge has been looking after me since the house got emptied out by the police."  
  "Oh my."  
  "They took everything. Except me. And the plans. And the photo." Bitzer felt compelled to clarify. "Well. Not really a photo. Paul Arist said it was a negative. And it used to be of you. I... think I hugged it too much."  
  A Walter Girl found the sad, black rectangle and placed it on a bench, well away from the rest of the instruments that kept gathering in here.  
  "We'll find him and tell him you're okay," breezed Maman. "Time for another diagnostic. Are you ready?"  
  Bitzer sighed out steam and nodded.  
  It was slow. It was boring. It was anything but private, since Maman and Mr Walter and a host of Walter Girls were poking and prodding about her insides.  
  And the questions were always different.  
  "What's my full name?" asked Maman.  
  Easy. "Plaesir Gloria Arist nee Aris."  
  "Those surnames are a bit similar," said Peter.  
  "Oui. Maman and Papa were only technically cousins. She was adopted by Grandmere and her Aunt."  
  "And which orphanage did I come from?" prompted Maman.  
  "That's a trick question," Bitzer grinned, and told the Story.  
*  
  Once upon a time two beautiful ladies went on a picnic in the Australian bush. It was a lovely day and much poetry got read. But, just as they were packing up, they heard a baby crying.  
  Aunty Josephine, the loveliest of the two, went looking and found a poor lost little baby girl. Just past walking and inconsolable.  
  They took her up in Grandmere's shawl and fed her the leftover sandwiches and gave her a drink, and they searched everywhere they could for the baby girl's family, but there was no sign.  
  So Aunty Josephine and Grandmere took her in and raised her as their own, and read poetry to each other until they day they died. And the lost little baby grew up and got educated and even went to America to learn how to build robots.  
  And one of those robots was Bitzer.  
*  
  "How old am I?" said Maman.  
  "One hundred and eight years old and *still* beautiful!"  
  A voice in the distant depths where Bitzer couldn't see said, "Found her."  
  "Plaesir 'Play' G. Aris. Went to Waltercorp training, washed out due to unauthorised experimentation with... opal... power..." said Peter.  
  The next thing Bitzer knew, there were machines all around her. All of them pointed at her heart.  
  "There is blue matter in there. And red matter. Yellow. Orange," Maman was saying. "Violet... Almost the entire rainbow."  
  "Except green," noted Peter.  
  "Green's bad luck," Bitzer supplied. "Maman said she chipped all the green off before she made me."  
  "Of course," said Maman. "Do you remember if anything happened to the bits?"  
  "A man called Becile took them for safe disposal," Bitzer could feel the pull of stasis taking her down into dreams. No. She wanted to solve the thing Maman was working on. She wanted to help. "...don't let Mr Walter shoot my heart?" she murmured, just before stasis claimed her.  
*  
  "Don't let me shoot her. Who does she think I am?"  
  "She doesn't," said Carol. "That's the point. She doesn't know she's being scanned. She doesn't know we have the best diagnostics running on her. She knows that they look like guns and they're pointed at her heart."  
  "She doesn't even know that humans die." Peter Walter V clapped her on her shoulder. "And you're her 'mama'."  
  "Maman. It's French. So's the surname Aris. And I don't know much more past 'bonjour' and 'ou est la pain'."  
  "And your accent sucks."  
  "I know. Maybe I can tell her I've been speaking English too long and I forgot all my French?"  
  "Or you could break it to her as gently as you can."  
  "*After* we have the emotional buffer installed."  
  "Definitely. She can't even handle infatuation. What's going to happen to her if she falls in love?"  
  "Sir?"  
  "Or if she hates someone?"  
  "Sir..."  
  "Or... *any* intense emotion!"  
  "Sir."  
  "She's going to go out in the world when we're done. She has to be ready for it!"  
  "*SIR*!"  
  "...huh?"  
  "The monitor."  
  Bitzer was dreaming, and it was up on the screen in every colour but green. Soppy, almost typical love music. Bitzer running through a wheat field to The Spine. Who smiled just for her. As it swelled, their hands met.  
  Holding hands.  
  She dreamed of holding hands.  
  Nothing more.  
  And even then, the dream fritzed.  
  "I don't think she'd know what to do with The Spine even if she got him," said Carol.  
  Peter V had a soppy expression on his face. "So innocent..."  
  "We can't test the mixed matter separately," said Carol. "We have to monitor it. See how it interacts in her system. Figure out how to at least filter it at a rate her systems can deal with it."  
  "An emotional dampener?"  
  "More like a restraint spigot." Her fingers danced in the air. Making calculations and diagrams in her head. "I could do a blue matter in a cold second, but all these others? I need more data, damnit."  
  "And we're only here for the rest of the year," added Pete. "I smell an ongoing investigation coming on."  
  "It is going to take more time than we have to diagnose her. Let alone help her."  
  Peter V thought about this. "She did say there was a house. Even gave you the address as I recall. The company can set up a lab somewhere, I'm sure. But the most definite thing is that this robot needs her mother."  
*  
  Rabbit was with her again. Not angry. Not happy either. "They say ya took g-good care of my plans. Lots'a robots do-don't know about treating pa-paper care-c-carefully."  
  "It may have been an accident," Bitzer allowed. "Maman told me t-t-t-t-t-to be qui-quiet. I lea-learned to treat ev-everything d-d-delicately."  
  "Dont believe in bleak horizons," advised her cousin. "We're shippin' out soon, and y-y-y-you'll have ta go home, too. We'll c-c-come back wuh-one day. You keep wa-watchin' for us."  
  "D'accord."  
  That was the last she'd see of Colonel Walter's Metal Men (and one covert woman) for some time.  
  Maman and Mr Walter had her running through every emotion they could think up. Which was exhausting. Bitzer felt sort of ashamed that she spent most of her time dreaming.  
  
  1989  
  Maman opened the doors to the dark space and showed her the house. Home again, home again, jiggetty jig.  
  Well, in Bitzer's case, a high-speed shuffle.  
  There was a police vehicle in the driveway, but that wasn't alarming. He had taken her to the world's exposition in a police vehicle. He'd apologized for taking her in a 'paddy wagon', but it was the only vehicle he had access to that could haul her weight. The door was unlocked, and Bitzer saw nothing wrong there, either. No policeman would need to lock his doors.  
  What was wrong was the stranger in the parlour. Sitting on the furniture as if he didn't want to stain it.  
  "Are you here to visit Sarge?" she said.  
  He stared at her as if she were a moving hatrack and stood as Maman entered. Took off his hat. Held it against his chest.  
  Maman took one look at the officer and said, "Bitzer, please you go to the kitchen and prepare some tea?"  
  Something to do!  
  Bitzer hummed to herself -tunes from the steam powered show- as she hunted for and located the kettle, the teapot, the tea leaves, the cream, the sugar, the biscuits, the cups -Sarge's collection was somewhat ad hoc and didn't contain a complete tea service- and the tray. Tea was a complicated business, and Bitzer wanted to get it right the first time.  
  She would make Maman happy.  
  Three cups. One for Maman. One for Sarge. One for their officer guest.  
  She had water and oil. Fully stocked, for a welcome change. Bitzer would not need anything for hours. Carrying the tray was tricky, and she had to tread carefully lest she trip over or bump into anything on the way to the coffee table in the parlour.  
  "...understand the legal tangle he left behind," the officer was saying.  
  "Tea?" smiled Bitzer. She did her utmost to glide over to the table and set the tray down. "I'm afraid the service is somewhat ad hoc."  
  "Bitzer..." Maman looked so *sad*.  
  "Did something bad happen?"  
  "Sit down. Please."  
  She didn't trust the furniture to hold her, so she sat at Maman's feet.  
  "Sometimes," said Maman. "Humans get very sick. And sometimes... they get so sick that they... stop."  
  She tried to think of a human who would matter so much that they would make Maman sad if they stopped. "Peter Walter?"  
  "No." Water escaped her eyes. "Sarge... the day you came to the Waltercorp Pavilion... he suffered a heart attack. His... generator... stopped. He died."  
No. No! "He promised he would be all right once he knew I was all right."  
  "Someti--*" Maman cleared her throat. "Sometimes... people can't... humans... can't keep their promises. Sometimes... they just fail."  
  "It's a mistake," Bitzer announced. "You came back. Sarge will come back."  
  "He can't come back," Maman took a deep breath. "Bitzer... humans don't last like robots. Lots of us are just lucky to make it to eighty years old."  
  "You are one hundred and nine."  
  "I'm twenty two. My name is Carol Lang. Plaesir Arist died of cancer in nineteen thirty-eight."  
  She didn't remember going down to the basement. All she knew was that she was where Maman's workbench used to be. Facing the walls where the plans used to hang. Wondering what she was going to do.  
  "Bitzer?" said the woman who looked like Maman. "Bitzer, it's going to be okay. I'll be looking after you. I want to."  
  She didn't look at her to listen. Just stared at the one brick in front of her eyes as if it were the most important brick in the universe. "Humans stop on the television all the time. Lots of times, they are going again, later. If I wait... If I am here, where he found me. He will come back. If I wait... If I do what I was told... If I'm good..." her voice faded into a whisper. "...they will come back..."  
*  
  Journal of Carol Lang, Matter Mistress.  
  The emotional restraint spigot seems to be working. As is the program that erases trigger memories that may upset Bitzer on recall. I will continue to monitor her. There are no trans-dimensional effects noticeable on the house from the prolonged exposure to the opal power core.  
  Though the emotional restraint spigot prevents further damage from emotional peaks, I am vaguely concerned for her psychological well-being. She did not take the knowledge of death very well.  
  She has since gone silent and retreated to her safe space in the basement and won't come out. Bitzer will watch television, and hum along with the radio. She seeks safety in old, familiar things. The over-exposed negative of her creator/mother, shows she knows. Songs she's familiar with. When there is nothing familiar for her, she hides under the stairs and rocks herself.  
  Is there such a thing as an Autistic robot?  
  I make it a point to go down and talk to her whenever I can. Provide what comfort I can to her, because I'm at least a familiar face. I'm not her mother... I can't consistently *be* her mother. I can try to be the next best thing.  
  I won't be so crass as to repair her while she's in stasis. There's already plenty of people who've violated her trust. Trust is *vital*.  
  I need to study this, without making it look like I'm studying this. I need to help her, because even mechanical life needs to be preserved.  
  
  1999  
  Carol looked up from her lunch, halfway through a robotic psychology thesis from one of her local students. This was the first time Bitzer had come upstairs in a decade. "Something you need?"  
  "I hear the wireless television," said Bitzer. "Am I Y2K compliant?"  
  "Uhm. You don't have an internal clock. Or an internal calendar. Y2K isn't a problem for you."  
  Sadness. "Oh."  
  "Want to talk about it?"  
  Bitzer sighed. "When you leave the wireless on? I hear people talking about what happens when they stop."  
  Oh dear.  
  "When people stop, they see their family and friends all over again," said Bitzer. "In a happy place. I thought... if I stopped. I would see Maman and Sarge again. I would find out what I'm for."  
  "There's more than one way to find out what you're for, Bitzer. And I meant it when I said you're a miracle who shouldn't end. I can look up your... mother's diaries. We can... experiment. Try some forms of art." She sighed. "You have the right to live, Bitzer. And that includes finding out what you're good at and doing it."  
  
  There's a cellar in Australia. There is a robot with an Opal heart who, despite being a century or more old, is just discovering the world. There is a faded negative that is her dearest possession, because it once held the image of the woman who made her. There are repairs, there are efforts to improve; but a non-standard robot is difficult to fix.  
  And there is hope.  
  Hope that she will, one day, find a purpose.  
  And find friends.  
  And find, at last, her mother.  
  And make her proud.


End file.
